When It Falls Apart (The D'Angelos, #1)(16)

“What if I get better?”

“What if you don’t?” She sat forward, placed a hand over his arm. “Dad, listen, I can’t live in Upland. Even if the condo was an option, I can’t stay there. And as much as I love you, I don’t see me cleaning your bottom.”

“I’ll wheel myself off a cliff before I . . . I let my daughter wipe my a-ass.”

They were on the same page there. “I’ve looked into assisted living homes.”

He narrowed his gaze, opened his mouth . . .

She cut him off before he uttered a word.

“It’s your own apartment, Dad. Yes, there is help there, someone to keep you clean,” she said as delicately as possible. “They do your laundry, keep the place tidy. Someone else is making your meals three times a day. You have a small space for your own food if you want it.”

“O-old folks’ home.”

“Assisted living. And here is the bottom line. You can’t afford to hire help, and I can’t hire any help without selling the condo.”

“Wh-where will you live?”

“Let’s move to San Diego,” she said with a smile. “It’s close, but a compromise.”

He shook his head.

“Dad. I’m doing everything I can here. I packed up and moved to California. You have to wiggle a little. You can’t stay alone in the condo, and I cannot . . . I won’t live there.” Tears filled her eyes without invitation. “How fair is it for me to give up everything and you give up nothing?”

“I’m the one-one in the bed.”

“And I’m trying to keep you as comfortable as I can. My work is suffering. My personal life is gone.” She hated the emotion rolling down her cheeks.

“Assisted living.”

“It’s the best option. Please, Dad. I’ve crunched the numbers. Your savings will keep you there for a while, and the condo sale will make up the rest when it’s needed.”

He wasn’t shaking his head anymore.

He covered her hand with his own. “You’re not wiping my a-ass.”

The decision had been made.

Now it was all about how to pay for it.

She needed the money from the condo to make it work, and eventually she’d spend time with a financial planner. If in fact her father didn’t have any other issues and lived another twenty years, she needed a map on how she was going to provide for him.

His social security helped but didn’t cover even half of what his bill would be. But he would have food and care with people available all day and night should he need it. And that was huge.

The compromise was San Diego.

He was going to a town outside of the city, and once he was there and the condo was in escrow, she’d find a small place and make it work.

Carmen was right.

Moving to San Diego was the best possible solution to the crappiest hand delivered to both her and her father.

Only once had her dad said that he didn’t know anyone in San Diego.

Brooke looked him in the eye, not willing to cave. “Good friends will make the drive. Acquaintances won’t. And when you’re up for it, we can come back to visit. It’s not a prison. It’s senior living where you can come and go as you please, so long as your memory is intact.”

Her father had smiled. “I don’t r-remember my jokes.”

“And I’m thankful for it,” she teased. His jokes were awful. He thought they were hilarious.

At the end of the day, the hard decisions had been made, and now it was all about making it happen. She’d found her father’s forever home and a real estate agent that insisted she’d get multiple offers on day one and likely be able to close escrow within thirty.

All she was waiting for was a discharge date for her dad and she’d hit the green light.

Then she’d look for her own place. Though she had considered looking sooner. Swinging rent, and the mortgage, and the down payment for her dad’s place, and, and, and . . . It made her nauseous.

While the temperature rose, and the stragglers meandered in and out, Brooke sifted through the hordes of files her father hadn’t bothered with in forty years. Birthday and Christmas cards, letters from his long-gone mother back when he’d moved from the East Coast to California. While one or two were interesting to read, they all said the same thing.

And the Dear John letters.

Her father, in addition to his failed marriages, had racked up quite a few pissed-off women in his time.

Why keep the letters?

After two or three, Brooke determined that her father wasn’t a trusting man. Which she already knew. That lack of trust bred insecurity and jealousy, which was the downfall of every relationship.

And now he was alone. Yes, he had her, but it wasn’t the same and Brooke knew that.

For a brief moment, she thought of Marshall. Realized that her thoughts hadn’t traveled to him in over a week.

She missed the security of the relationship but didn’t find herself pining for the man.

He hadn’t reached out to her. Never truly tried to change her mind.

If he’d really loved her, wouldn’t he have tried?

Brooke shook off the impending melancholy and glanced around at the bits and pieces of yard-sale leftovers.

She opened the trunk of her father’s car, the one she’d decided to drive until everything was sold and they’d moved to San Diego. Then she’d stop payment on the damn thing and give it back to the dealership that sold it to her dad in the first place. She bagged up the clothing that didn’t sell, the miscellaneous household items collected by an old man, and tossed the yard-sale sign in the trash.